


Anne Meets the King of Bees: An Anne of Green Gables/Retirementlock Crossover

by homosociallyyours



Category: Anne of Green Gables - L. M. Montgomery, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anne has a flight of fancy, Established Relationship, Fluff, Gen, Retirement, Retirementlock, Sherlock Holmes and Bees, flowery language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-04-04
Packaged: 2018-05-31 07:05:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6460591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/homosociallyyours/pseuds/homosociallyyours
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A stroll through the White Way of Delight leads Anne to meet two new friends--John Watson and Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anne Meets the King of Bees: An Anne of Green Gables/Retirementlock Crossover

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MyLittleCornerOfSherlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyLittleCornerOfSherlock/gifts).



> This fic was a very long time in the making. It was a request from @mylittlecornerofsherlock, who won a giveaway I was doing ages ago. Various life complications and writer's block stopped me from ever really digging into writing it, but about a year ago I re-read Anne of Green Gables for the millionth time and felt Anne's voice in my head needing to come out. It's finally done! 
> 
> I owe @mylittlecornerofsherlock a debt of gratitude for her immense patience in waiting for this gift fic. Hope it was worth it! 
> 
> Also one million and a half pounds of love for @rayvanfox for his beta-ing skills and @hiddenlacuna, who not only beta-ed and gave great comments, but came back to me this past weekend at 221b con and gave me the best kind of shove to actually *finish* this fic. BLESS YOU, friend!!

The May sunshine streamed down onto Anne's face through the apple blossoms overhead, and she twirled, delighted, as petals rained down in the soft spring breeze. She began stringing together a lovely fantasy wherein the Epimileads, nymphs of the apple trees, had chosen her to be their spring queen. Her coronation gown would have a long, glistening white train, and a diaphanous veil that twinkled with sunshine and starlight would hang over her pale brow. 

Anne bowed to the tree nearest to her. "Such an honor thou hast bestow'd upon me, fair Nymph. But dost thou truly believe I could be thy queen?" A breeze shook more petals from the branches, and Anne smiled rapturously, bending to gather as many tiny petals and flowers as she could to ornament herself. In her reverie, she almost didn't notice the bee that hummed above her, waiting to land on a nearby bloom.

The bee settled down just as Anne's eyes lit upon the flower, and she immediately knew that the bee was meant to be one of her royal attendants. "I'm ever so pleased to make your acquaintance," she said, nodding to the bee. "Do lead me to the coronation, and I'll follow." 

Wasting no time, the bee buzzed off toward its hive and Anne followed swiftly behind it, down a barely worn path covered with bright green moss and dotted with bright buds of pink and yellow. So intent was she on following her attendant that she hardly noticed when she ran through an old wooden gate, left open on its rusty hinges. 

Anne rounded a tree just in time to watch her attendant bee land gracefully on the outstretched arm of a rather tall man clad in a strange, netted hat that fully covered his head and face. His clothes were well-tailored but old and a bit faded, and he wore brown rubberized gloves. Still caught up in her imaginings, Anne thought this man must be the father of the dryads, come to life to take her away and make her a Tree Queen. She screamed, and the King approached her, shaking a hand as if telling her to stop. This only made her want to scream more, and she did so until another man approached carrying a book and looking harried, saying, "Sherlock, what's this racket?" 

It was in this commotion that one of the bees--surely not her attendant!--chose to sting her. Later, Anne would mourn him and speak of his immense commitment to duty and to his hive, but in the moment she was focused on the sharp pain of the sting. She cried out at the shock of it, tears springing to her eyes. 

When Anne looked up again, she saw that the Tree King was nothing but a man, tall and odd looking, with iron grey curls on his head and a questioning gleam in his eyes. "Oh," she said, shaking her head. Marilla would have herself a laugh at Anne over this one. Her imagination had gotten the better of her yet again. She looked down at her hand and saw the bee's stinger still embedded in her skin as the second man approached her. 

"Hello," he said gently. "My name is John Watson, and that's Sherlock Holmes. May I have a look at that sting? I'm trained as a doctor," he said. His voice was reassuring, and Anne nodded, looking back at him. 

“It’s not so bad,” he said, gingerly pulling the stinger out with gentle, nimble fingers. “You’re not allergic, are you?” Anne shook her head. “Then we’ve got a salve inside that should take the sting away.” He looked down at Anne with a reassuring smile. “In the meantime, perhaps Mr. Holmes could show you around the garden--”

Mr. Holmes had turned back to his hive to soothe the bees, plumes billowing from his smoker as he settled the hive. His focus was unbroken by the doctor’s gentle prodding, and so Dr. Watson cleared his throat to gain his attention as Anne looked down at the red bump the bee’s sting had left on her hand. “Sherlock, help our guest,” Dr. Watson said pointedly as he turned toward the house. 

**

Sherlock sighed. “Very well. Miss--” 

“Shirley. Anne Shirley. Thank you both. I’m dreadfully sorry I wandered into your garden like that. I was having one of my flights of fancy, and I know Marilla would say I just let my imagination run away from me. I’d been so careful about it lately, but the flowers in the White Way of Delight were more achingly beautiful than I could ever have imagined them, as though the trees were simply filled to bursting with the very glory of springtime itself. I couldn’t resist pretending that I was Lady Cordelia Fitzgerald, and that the apple trees were coming to life to make me their queen. Have you ever pretended something so forcefully that it just seems true for a moment?” 

The girl looked up at Sherlock with expressive grey eyes, genuinely wanting to know his answer. In a flash Sherlock was reminded of playing pirate as a child, dashing through the yard, chasing after his family’s dog as though they were about to do battle. He smiled at the memory before nodding to Anne. “In fact I have. Many times. Not only as a child, mind you. Some would say I continue to do it now.”“I used to pretend quite a lot when I lived in London. Now I tend bees here in Avonlea with my greatest friend and colleague, Doctor John Watson.” 

Something in Sherlock wanted desperately to impress this odd little red haired creature who’d stumbled into his yard, and so he kept talking, leading her away from the beehive and toward a bench that was nestled among a sea of mayflowers and violets. 

“In my younger days I was quite the detective, you see. Disguises were one of my special skills in uncovering the details of whatever cases I took, and so I did more pretending than most,” he said, motioning for her to sit. “Even without disguises, I have a talent for knowing about people. Would you like to see?” 

Anne nodded, and Sherlock began. “You live on the island, but you’re not from here. In fact, you’ve lived in a few different locales--far more than the average child your age.” He looked her over again, taking note of her simply made clothes and skinny limbs. “You’re an orphan, taken in by a family in town to help care for children…” he cocked his head to the side, thinking for a moment, “no, not children. A farm, perhaps. Or merely as a companion. You haven’t been here long, but you like it here. You get into trouble often, but it always comes out well in the end.” 

He looked at her with a twinkle in his eye. “How did I do, Anne Shirley?” 

The expression on Anne’s face was almost answer enough, but she responded nonetheless. “Oh, Mr. Holmes, that was positively astounding! But how could you have known any of it?” 

Sitting down, Sherlock explained his deductions to his devoted audience of one, relishing the way that she reacted to the thing which he found simplest and most satisfying to do. The last person to respond this way had been John Watson, so many years ago, and he smiled at the memory. As he finished his brief explanation, John arrived with the salve for Anne’s now nearly forgotten sting. 

He greeted the pair with a nod of his head before kneeling in front of Anne and asking for her hand to apply the salve. “I’m afraid I didn’t ask for your name earlier,” he said. “My apologies. I was worried about the sting, and wanted it taken care of quickly.” 

“I understand, Doctor Watson. When I cared for Mrs. Hammond’s three sets of twins, one of them sat down nearly on top of a beehive, and it was up to me to see that the stingers were out, all while Hugo--that was the twin who sat on the beehive--wailed and wailed. I thought he’d never stop, but then I think when a child is upset it almost feels as though they’ll never be happy again until they are, and then it’s hard to believe they were ever crying.” 

John looked from Anne to Sherlock, smiling. 

“This is Anne Shirley, John. She’s rather new to the island as well.” 

“Oh, but you asked my name, and I was going on about one of the Hammond twins! Marilla would scold me to mind my manners and hold my tongue, but it’s such a hard thing to do sometimes. Words come barreling out of me and I feel as though I’d have to rush to get ahead of them, and then I simply forget myself.” 

Anne furrowed her brow and John laughed. “Never you mind, Anne. It’s just Sherlock and me here, and we’ve known each other so long that entire afternoons can pass nearly in silence. Hearing a bit of talk is a welcome change.” 

“Oh, I feel as though I was meant to meet the two of you today, though I’d never have guessed it when I came out here this morning. But you’re both so interesting, and I think you must be full of the most exciting stories.” 

Sherlock and John shared a look as Sherlock replied, “that we are, my dear Ms. Shirley. Doctor Watson is writing a few of them down now, and I am always happy to re-tell them myself when the mood strikes, though I spend most of my time pretending to be the King of the Bees these days.” 

Anne laughed, and Sherlock smiled to himself. “I want to hear your stories,” she said, “but I promised Marilla that I’d help her with supper and I know Matthew will want to hear all about my meeting you, so I really should be getting back to Green Gables.” 

“Of course, my dear girl,” John said. “You’re welcome to visit here anytime, and we’ll supply you with as many stories as you’d like.” 

“In the meantime, we’ll walk with you back to the main road, won’t we, Doctor Watson?” Sherlock said, rising from the bench and helping John up as well. 

“That would be lovely, thank you,” Anne said with a curtsy. 

The trio walked through the garden and down that mossy path, talking as easily as three friends who’d known each other longer than a mere hour or two of a single afternoon. When Anne took her leave of them, it was with promises to return again soon.

“What a remarkable child,” Sherlock said as Anne’s little red head disappeared from his vision. 

John smiled at him fondly. “Did she remind you of yourself at that age?” 

Sherlock turned back toward the house, taking John’s arm in his own. “Oh, no, Doctor. At that age, I was rather pensive and had trouble making friends. In fact, she reminded me of you.” With that, he bent down and gave John a tender kiss on his forehead, and they started the walk back to their little garden home.


End file.
